


The Art of Breathing Underwater

by StoriesbyNessie



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Character Death, Depression, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Insomnia, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Nightmares, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Draco Malfoy, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Redeemed Draco Malfoy, Sad, Support Group
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:22:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24753133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StoriesbyNessie/pseuds/StoriesbyNessie
Summary: After losing Harry in an Auror’s accident, Draco is left alone with intense grief. He can’t eat, sleep or function at all. He’s on the verge of drowning from the pain and in an attempt to heal, his therapist convinces him to attend a support group for people who have lost a loved one. Draco hates the support group and its pathetic methods of togetherness; the pain doesn’t go away just because he’s among others feeling the same way.But when it comes down to it, maybe the support group is just what Draco needs in order to learn to breathe underwater.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 6
Kudos: 10





	1. In the wrong room

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Murder_Kitten](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Murder_Kitten/gifts).



> A/N: For Kirsty. Meant as a birthday gift, but I can clearly not contain myself. 
> 
> How this fic was born: A while ago she talked about how she wanted a story about Harry dying and Draco being left behind, grieving. I was already planning gifting her a fanfiction but no idea I came up with seemed good enough. Asked if I could have this idea and well, here it is. 
> 
> This is not a happy story; it's a story about pain and it will be dark at times and it will hurt. I advise sensitive readers not to read. Also, this is my first official Drarry! Worth mentioning, lol. 
> 
> The idea behind the title: Somebody once said to me when I was in a dark place: "Either you drown or you learn to breathe underwater." It's very metaphoric and for me it works as a reminder to keep fighting even when life is backwards and hard to deal with. So I thought it was very fitting for this story. <3
> 
> And Kirsty, I really hope you enjoy this one. It's a long story. :) 
> 
> Many, many hugs. 
> 
> \- Nessie

**Chapter One: In the wrong room**

_Either you drown or you learn to breathe underwater._

“This is ridiculous.”

Draco Malfoy scowled and plucked invisible lint away from his custom-made robes and gave the lady with the clipboard across from him in this pathetic circle they had formed a proper glare.

She deserved it.

“Now, now, that’s not the right attitude,” the lady said, and crossed one leg over the other, fixing her gaze on him. She had enormous hazel eyes and so round, rosy cheeks she reminded Draco of an overgrown baby. The little, dark-brown bun atop her head made her look like she was four years old, and the rather colourful clothing was provocatively ugly. Had she been dressed by a blind Muggle? The yellow dress she was wearing along with her neon pink tights hurt his eyes; it was all too damn cheerful. She had a little plastic sign pinned to the dress, letting everyone who had an interest in knowing that her name was Danielle. She adjusted the clipboard in her lap and patiently informed Draco for what felt like the four hundredth time that this was a safe space and he wasn’t being punished. He was there to heal, to meet others in a similar situation and to share his feelings and know that he wasn’t alone.

“… Because this is a **_safe_** _space,”_ Danielle repeated in a do-we-understand-each-other sort of voice, the same parents used when they talked to their small children. “And you can’t start off every meeting pretending you’re in the wrong room.” She knitted her eyebrows sadly and scribbled down something with her quill. Draco was her problem patient: the one who refused to co-operate. She said nothing, but Draco could see in her entire body language that he made her annoyed. She always seemed to write more notes about him than anyone else.

Draco, in turn, wanted to scream to Danielle that the stupid group therapy was _fucking_ useless and he didn’t want to be there. He didn’t want to hold someone’s sweaty hand to feel like ’he wasn’t alone', and he most certainly didn’t want to hold the stupid _blue ball of feelings_ like he was fucking five during those moments when Danielle demanded they would share things. He didn’t care how safe this bloody space was; he never wanted to be here in the first place. Draco had been deprived of his entire life, his happiness and his safety; everything should be different. He should have lived his best life, he deserved that, but instead he was here.

In therapy, attending a support group for people who had lost a loved one. 

Draco had been going to this support group for three weeks, sitting down on the wobbly, black little plastic chair every Thursday and stare with empty eyes at ten other people who stared back at him with equally empty eyes. The only one who was out of place in this room was Danielle, the therapist, with her colourful clothing, bright mood and clipboard. Even her quill was offensive; it was the same awful neon pink as her tights _._ Draco had fought hard every Thursday not to roll his eyes at her. He never actually did, but he refused to introduce himself. He refused to partake in anything happening in this room. The support group had been suggested by his own therapist, and Draco had protested from the start. He didn’t know why he kept attending, but it was either this or lay in bed and stare up at the ceiling while his thoughts and memories ate him alive.

They started every meeting by talking about themselves and why they were there. Just in case someone is new, Danielle had said. Nobody was ever new; it was the same dull faces that had always been there. Draco couldn’t understand how they all put up with it; this entire damn act. Or maybe they hated it just as much as he did, but was better at hiding it.

Danielle watched Draco with expectant eyes. She shifted in her seat, the quill in her right hand prepared to add more notes to his name. He looked at it and frowned before drawing in a sharp breath through his nose.

“I’m in the wrong room.”

Danielle sighed before giving him a forced smile. “Okay…” she said, “everyone, this is Draco Malfoy…” She lifted her head from her notes and looked around to make sure they all heard her, much in the same way a teacher talked to their seven-year-old pupils and told everyone what she told them every Thursday.

_This is Draco Malfoy. He is here with us today because he lost his boyfriend in a work-related accident eighteen months ago. He is very fragile, emotionally unstable, and he hates people._

Danielle never said the last part, though; it wouldn’t be professional. But Draco could have bet his broomstick she would have wanted to.

Like every Thursday, ten other peoples’ voices rang out in monotone unison:

“Hi, Draco Malfoy…” Before they all moved on to the next person in the sad little circle.

It was hell.

*******

The injustice of it all was infuriating. Harry had defeated Voldemort, had been the one everyone called _The Boy who lived._

_Harry wasn't supposed to..._

He had saved everyone and brought peace to the wizarding world. Draco had been on the wrong side of the war. Being the child of a Death Eater hadn’t been easy and had led to enemies, prejudice and hate. Draco had grown up believing Muggles were filthy Mudbloods and never could be counted as real witches or wizards. He had bought the concept blindly as a young boy, like a ready-to-go-manual in how to act and behave as many other children to Death Eaters had done too.

Then everything became too real. Draco learnt what terrible things war could bring the hard way. Standing in the middle of death and despair kind of changed one’s view on things. Crabbe had died, but Draco didn’t particularly miss him. Not now. He _had_ missed him though, but it was such a long time ago now it felt like a completely different lifetime.

One thing had led to another after the war. Somewhere amid the celebrations Draco and Harry had made peace with each other. _More than that,_ Draco thought to himself as he remembered what else had happened that night. The first, tentative, alcohol-induced kiss and many, many more followed—lots of talking between too because one couldn’t kiss all the time. Draco got to know Harry as Harry and not as the famous boy he had gone to school with and suffered through Potions and Care of Magical Creatures with. Harry had gone from the boy Draco used to hate to someone he _loved_.

Six months. It was all they had had together and it had been the most intense six months Draco had ever experienced in his whole life.

Harry absolutely _had_ to work as an Auror. Winning against Voldemort had made Harry an expert in the Dark Arts, and he was immediately offered a position among the Aurors at the Ministry. He gladly took it without blinking, reasoning that he loved helping people. He wanted to make a difference, keep doing good in their world. Voldemort’s death hadn’t stopped surviving Death Eaters from roaming the streets, desperately trying to rise to power with everything they could despite it all being utterly useless. The team of Aurors needed Harry’s knowledge and bravery. He’d been so fearless. Harry had also been smart and selfless and had believed in justice.

_But not smart enough, apparently. If he had been, he wouldn’t have gone and got himself killed._

Draco hadn’t wanted Harry to take the job offer. He had tried to stop him with all he could without actually admitting how afraid he’d been. Draco never admitted such things; it wasn’t in his nature. He had grown up learning not to show his emotions; emotional people were weak. Feelings were awful, and it had been enough the way he had started to get sappy around Harry. So Draco had tried to tell him not to take it with his own methods, which had involved everything else _but_ worry. Somewhere he had hoped Harry would have understood that Draco fucking cared and that he indeed worried.

Of course, Harry had taken the job anyway. They had fought about it, but eventually, Draco relaxed because Harry did well. He was clearly meant for it, to be out on the field protecting people and fighting evil.

Then the accident happened. _No, not an accident,_ Draco thought to himself. _Murder._ Harry had been murdered.

“It all happened so quickly. He didn’t suffer; we should be grateful for that,” they said afterwards. “It’s tragic though, tragic indeed,” they all continued, shaking their heads in disbelief. The entire wizarding world grieved. Everyone was shocked; Harry had been _The Boy who Lived,_ after all. He wasn’t supposed to have lifeless eyes. When he had, he was supposed to _come back._ That was the rule; that was the way things were.

And more importantly, he wasn’t supposed to have left Draco.

The clocks stopped the day Harry died.


	2. Sleepless

**Chapter Two: Sleepless**

_The night is the hardest time to be alive and 4 am knows all my secrets._

“I don’t sleep.”

After a long moment of uncomfortable silence, and a therapist that kept staring at him until he wanted to cry — Draco finally caved in and opened up. He never intended to, but here they were. The witch sitting in front of him gave a small, friendly smile, but her eyes remained serious, and she tilted her head to one side. Her curly strawberry-blonde hair was wild and untamed- if it wasn’t the wrong colour, she could easily pass for Granger in appearance.

“Okay,” the witch said and jotted down something in her notebook, “That’s all right. Some days are like that. It’s normal.”

Draco nodded slowly. He felt restless today, almost shaking from it. His legs didn’t want to be still no matter how hard he tried, and he wrung his hands nearly obsessively in his lap. Noticing this, the witch leant forward in her seat and pierced her brown eyes into Draco’s grey.

“But… I do need to ask. How long has it been since you last slept?”

Draco blinked. He had absolutely no idea. He had lost count of sleepless nights a long time ago. There had been too many, that much he knew. Her gaze made him uncomfortable, making him quickly want to look away. The office space they were in was small and humid with naked, white walls, not as much as a painting in sight. Out the wide window, Draco could see the sun and a blue, almost cloudless sky.

It was May again. Summer.

Draco’s eyes darted around the room, unable to focus.

“How long?” His therapist asked again, bringing his attention back to her. Draco had already forgotten what she wanted to know. She must have known he had too. “How long has it been since you last slept, I mean, since you had a proper night’s sleep?”

_I don’t know._

__

Would she accept that as a reply? Should he say something? Why had he brought it up in the first place?

It was her damn eyes, Draco decided. She studiously fixed them on him, and frankly, it was creepy. They made him say things he didn’t want to say.

“A-a week maybe…” He stuttered out the reply, hating how small his voice sounded. He knew he only said it because he didn’t know what else to say. What would be considered a better answer? What would sound the best?

Truth be told, it was probably more than a week, but everything was a bit hazy these days, so Draco wasn’t sure, and that wasn’t a lie.

“You haven’t slept at all in a week?”

Her tone was sharp, questioning, all while her eyes remained on him without looking away even for a second.

When Draco said nothing, she sighed and put down the clipboard on the small table between them.

“I will be frank with you, Draco. It’s dangerous not to sleep. I’m sure you realise this isn’t healthy for you.”

_Great. A lecture._

“It’s not that bad,” Draco said defensively, suddenly feeling warm and like he wanted to faint. He desperately searched in his mind—surely he had slept some? An hour here and there, surely he must have done that the past week. Or weeks, he wasn’t sure what it was. The more he tried to focus, the more he felt himself lose grip over his own thoughts. He blinked; the walls blurred around him, and his therapist’s voice subdued in his ears until she was nothing more than white noise.

_Draco felt Harry’s eyes on him in the bedroom before Harry said anything. Draco knew those eyes were worried too; he didn’t have to turn his head to know this was true. Harry always had those eyes when Draco was like this. He gripped the edge of the bed tightly with both hands, feeling guilty._

_“One of those nights?” Harry asked, leaning against the doorframe. Draco imagined him having his arms crossed over his chest too—he never had to turn his head when he had his back against him to know what Harry’s different facial expressions looked like or what pose he used to go with them. Potter was so damn predictable, or maybe it was because they had spent so much time together recently, Draco had just learnt._

_He could only nod in reply too, unable to speak. There was a sigh from Harry, a deep, frustrated sigh._

_“You know, there are always the potions…”_

_“I don’t want them!” Draco hissed, angrier than he had intended._

_“I know,” Harry said wearily, his tone clearly stating he didn’t want to argue. “So you’ve said.”_

_Draco squeezed his eyes shut and breathed hard through his nose; he was so frustrated. Frustrated and aching all over. He felt exhausted, but every time he put his head on the pillow, his brain wouldn’t shut up. It was constantly talking, constantly running a fucking marathon. And the rare times when he dozed off after tossing and turning for hours, the nightmares… He couldn’t hold them back._

_It was always the same nightmares too. The threatening, ever-growing flames, his arms around Goyle and his mind shouting to him to move. Draco was in the Room of Requirement and Crabbe had just cast that damn Fiendfyre. He couldn’t control that nasty thing coming out of his wand, and the flames closed in on them all and Draco’s lungs had filled up with smoke, and it was hard… so hard… to breathe; it stung so badly. With the help of Potter, Weasley and Granger, Draco and Goyle had made it out while Crabbe had been eaten alive by the fire. He remembered the shrieks of horror, the previously mean, determined look transformed into a frightened one on Crabbe’s face once he realised he couldn’t control the spell. Draco remembered not wanting to turn his head and look, but he had done it anyway, and he had seen… He had seen…_

_Draco swallowed hard and ordered himself not to think about it. This was just one of them, one of all the nightmares he suffered from since the war._

_Also one of many things he kept from Harry. Potter didn’t need to know. All he knew was that Draco sometimes had terrible nights where he couldn’t sleep, and that was that. But Potter had figured out something wasn’t quite right with Draco and had tried to play detective to get it out of him. Draco had refused to tell, and they had fought about it until Harry simply had given up because Draco was far too stubborn. He had let out many things, torn down a few walls, but everything with Harry was still so new, and Draco couldn’t afford to tear down every wall he had. Maybe later, he always told himself. Maybe later._

It was only that later never came. Draco blinked again and was suddenly brought back to the brightly lit room and his therapist giving him that studious look that he had learnt meant she thought about what to do with him.

The witch leant forward and peered at the notes she had made about Draco.

“This has been going on for a while, hasn’t it?” She asked, her eyes on him again. “This is recurring for you, isn’t it?”

Draco shrugged one shoulder, before rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. “Sometimes… I suppose,” he admitted, thinking that now when the cat was out of the bag, it was best to put all the cards on the table. What did he have to lose, really? He had nothing left, absolutely nothing.

“Uh-huh,” the witch nodded, picking up the clipboard to write another note about him. Draco craned his neck as if that would help him to see what it was, but he couldn’t, of course. She was quiet for a while before her eyes sought him again over the table. “Look, Mr Malfoy… not sleeping is very dangerous, especially when it goes on for long periods. Both your body and mind need their fair share of rest. We need to figure out a solution that will work for you, now and long term. I will provide you with some potions for Dreamless sleep, that should work wonders for you and remove the nightmares you’ve previously stated that you have…” She paused to eye the parchment again, “But… since you’re in such bad shape regarding your mental health, wouldn’t you prefer to stay at St Mungos for a while? We’ve got an excellent ward that I’m sure will take wonderful care of you. Excellent staff up there. They will allow you your own room and loved ones can visit you. Of course, you’re an adult, I cannot make you, but I highly recommend you don’t say no to this, Draco. I understand how difficult it can be… with…” she paused briefly before continuing, “everything… But frankly…”

She talked to him in a grave voice about how much he needed this. And Draco, his pulse quickening slightly and mouth going dry, could only think about how annoying the tiny crease in the middle of her eyebrows was and how she sounded like she was trying to sell him a night in an expensive hotel suite. She had her motherly voice Draco had heard her use on several occasions before when she didn’t really know what to say or do when all he did was to stare blankly at her. He was a tough case; a problem patient. Everywhere he went, he was a fucking problem patient. The witch in front of him was his third therapist in a short time, and he hadn’t even bothered to learn her bloody name. She had probably said it to him more than once, but he kept forgetting and who the hell cared anyway? Draco _certainly_ didn’t.

She mentioned she worried, too, terrific. Great. _Fan-fucking-tastic._ Draco sighed as the lady went on, pressing him into accepting to be admitted to the hospital.

“… Because when it’s been a while since you last slept, I think somebody should monitor you a bit,” the therapist said, smiling warmly, reassuringly. Like everything was going to be okay, and he didn’t need to be afraid. His therapist reminded him of his mother when Draco had woken up from bad dreams when he was a small boy before he attended Hogwarts. His mother was there, comforting, safe and warm, and told him everything was going to be all right. She had been a brilliant, incredible force who chased the bad dreams away. She had smiled as reassuringly as the lady in front of him did now: _everything would be okay._

No need to be afraid.

_“Hey… Everything’s all right,” Harry said, finally stepping away from the doorframe to reach for Draco. The bed protested gently as Harry sat down and pulled Draco into a one-armed hug. He kissed Draco’s temple, and Draco felt sweat from the tip of Harry’s nose as it brushed against his skin. Harry was warm, and he smelt of the air outside. The smell brought thoughts of big, open meadows, high treetops and a blue sky to Draco’s mind and he thought to himself as he leant against Harry that they should go flying the coming summer. He needed to tell him that sometime, but not now._

_“Thank you…” he said quietly, staring down on the carpeted floor. He wasn’t sure what he was thanking Harry for. For being there, he supposed. For not asking questions, for not pressing things when Draco didn’t want Harry to. For respecting him, for… Hell, he was out of reasons._

_“Sleeplessness is a dickhead,” Harry declared against Draco’s white-blonde hair. He kissed him on his head, and Draco snickered, unable to control himself._

_“Yes, it kind of is…” he agreed. Draco didn’t need to look to know that Harry smiled. Harry liked it when Draco laughed nowadays or snickered or showed any signs of being happy. Draco liked when Harry did too. Funny how it all could change so much now when an entire war had come and gone._

_Harry stroked Draco’s cheek with his finger, gently guiding his chin up so he could kiss him. It was a slow, warm, brain-melting kiss; shudderingly good. Draco melted into it; just like always._

_“You might be stressed out… I know what helps with that…” Harry murmured, eyes flickering over Draco’s face. His tongue slid across Draco’s lower lip before entering his mouth again, and soon Draco found himself on his back in the bed with Harry half on top of him. Draco looped his arms around Harry’s neck and thought to himself that Harry was right._

_This kind of comfort chased the bad dreams away._

“What do you say?” His therapist asked tentatively, tilting her head slightly to one side again, which was irritating.

_She looks like a dog expecting a treat._

Draco panicked, as it dawned on him that he had barely heard a word of what she had said. The words spun around in his brain, making no sense at all. St Mungos, ward, potions… It all felt blurry; for all he knew, she could have been talking about finding life on another planet. The already compact room shrunk further around him as she sat there demanding answers. He blinked several times, white noise buzzing in his ears and he was so dizzy.

“Yes…” he heard himself say when he really wanted to say no. He realised too late he did it to please his therapist, to make her shut the hell up. She annoyed him, and she wasn’t supposed to annoy him. She was _supposed_ to help him, was supposed to make everything that hurt go away. Put the bad in the timeout corner.

_Bring Harry back._

They lived in a goddamn magical world; why couldn’t they bring the dead back? Why. The. Hell. Couldn’t. They. Bring. The. Dead. Back?

“Okay,” his therapist replied. “Is there anyone you’d like to contact before we take you in? You ought to let someone know that you’ll be staying at the hospital for a while. I could arrange a fire-call.”

“Yes…” Draco’s voice was absent and far-away. He got to his feet on wobbly legs, feeling hot all over. He told himself repeatedly things would be okay, but he didn’t believe himself.

_I can’t chase the bad away._


	3. The waiting room

**Chapter Three: The waiting room**

_Hell is empty and all the devils are here._

Draco’s mouth felt dry as a desert. His voice was hoarse, his thoughts scattered like candy wrappers around a rubbish bin. They were still collected enough for him to know who he wanted to fire-call though.

_“Pansy…”_ he said in a low voice as her face came into view in the embers of the fireplace. He was in a small office, and his therapist waited for him on the other side of the closed door.

_Like I'm in prison and she's the guard._

Draco hadn’t talked to Pansy Parkinson in weeks, but no matter how much time passed between them, they always knew where they had each other.

He was so tired, but he tried to put up a brave face in front of his friend. In Draco’s case, a brave face meant the cool demeanour he’d always had— like a true Slytherin.

_Never let anything show. Not your fears, no nothing. Emotions are for the weak. Crying is for tiny children._

Draco heard his father’s every word, ringing in his ears as crystal clear as when he first had said them.

“Draco? Everything alright?” Pansy sounded both surprised, and a little apprehensive. Draco saw how she restrained herself from calling him _darling._ He hated the endearment: not even Harry had called him that. But Pansy didn’t care. She called everyone close to her darling.

They hadn’t spoken to each other for a few weeks now. Draco withdrew himself from her, from everybody. So much had changed from when they attended Hogwarts. Pansy Parkinson used to be glued to his side, only leaving it to sleep or go to the girl’s bathroom. She was one of the few people he still kept in his life after the war. The war had changed them both in a lot of ways, but their bond had grown stronger since. Draco knew the affection had more or less been one-sided. He had pushed the dark-haired girl away as much as he could, not wanting her to get under his skin. She still hadn’t been able to —only Potter had ever been able to— but all the same, their bond had become stronger. Draco felt like Pansy was one of very few people he could trust, at least with _some_ things. She was still a Slytherin girl, after all, and loved good gossip. Pansy had the decency to keep shut about Draco’s therapy though. She was the only one who knew about the support group and the different therapists.

“No, Pansy, it’s not,” Draco said as evenly as he could. “I… well, I suppose there isn’t any easy way to say this. They want to admit me to the hospital.”

“What? Why?” Pansy frowned through the embers; her well-plucked eyebrows knitted together. Draco resisted the temptation of saying that frowning so hard would give her wrinkles. “Are you…” Pansy began, voice trailing off as she didn’t know how to continue the sentence. She sighed, biting down on her bottom lip. “Would you like me to come and be with you? Do you need me? Anything at all?”

Draco thought for a moment. “Yes, I’d like it if you could come actually,” he told her in a low, almost shy voice. He realised that it was the first time he had ever been this raw and honest with her.

He felt nauseous, and his mind reeled. Draco wasn’t sure what this ward at St Mungo’s could do or what it meant to be there, but his therapist seemed so confident that this was the right choice for him.

_Who knows at this point? I don’t._

Pansy nodded. “Alright. Of course, darling. When do they take you in?”

“I’m not sure.” This was another very honest admission. His therapist hadn’t said anything about that, but something told him it would be soon. That was the only thing that seemed certain. Draco thought for another moment, before he added, “Can you do one thing for me? Keep this a secret from mother. I do not wish for her to worry about me. In fact, I’d appreciate it if this stayed between you and I. _Only._ ” He bore his stormy grey eyes into Pansy’s dark brown, hoping the stern look he had perfected after growing up with Lucius would intimidate her.

Almost to his disappointment, the witch didn’t react _—what a shame._

“Of course, anything,” Pansy said again, with a sweet smile.

A sound from the other side of the door told Draco that he needed to go. Pansy reached out to stroke his cheek as they said goodbye and told Draco to keep her notified of what happens. He told her he would.

Draco wasn’t sure what was going on at all or if he would have time to go home to pick up the things he needed. He would need clothes and toiletries he supposed; he had never had a reason to stay in the hospital before. He had only ever been in the hospital wing at Hogwarts, and that seemed so long ago now. Draco didn’t know what he could expect; this felt so strange.

His therapist didn’t reveal much either, only told him that she was proud of him for making the right decision.

“This is going to be wonderful; everything will feel much better soon,” she said as she entered the room with all the grace of a ballerina. “You’re doing the right thing, Draco.”

Draco nodded, trying to feel like he did the right thing too. He had an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach, and he couldn’t shake it off no matter how hard he tried.

“When will I…”

_… be admitted?_

He couldn’t form the full question; the words seemed caught in his throat. The witch flashed him a bright, reassuring smile that told him not to worry and how _right_ this decision was. Her teeth were white and even, and everything about her radiated warmth.

“I’ve already been in contact with the Healers at the ward. They’re waiting for you. They can take you in right away.”

“What about…” Draco began before stopping himself. If he voiced the full question, he would sound like a petulant and spoilt child. A child who was used to get his way. Hell, he _had been_ a petulant and spoilt child, so who was he kidding? Draco had wanted to ask about his clothes and other belongings—surely they must give him time to go home and pack?

His therapist still had that damn smile glued to her face. _Don’t worry about a thing._ He wondered if she knew that telling him not to worry only had the opposite effect.

_Don’t worry_ was her favourite phrase. She said it so often Draco wanted to scream at her to _shut the hell up_ and she seemed to say it even without using any words. It was all held in that infuriating smile. Draco dropped his gaze to the floor. He didn’t want to look at it, didn’t want to look at her. Thankfully, she wasn’t as bad as _Danielle_ from the support group, and he had heard a lot of good things about her before.

_If she thinks staying at St Mungo's is the best thing for me… Then perhaps it is._

Then why does it feel so strange? Shouldn’t he feel good about this?

No, maybe he was supposed to feel this way. The witch had told him before that he had depression and post-traumatic stress from losing Harry and being in the war. It must feel strange because everything felt strange these days. His emotions that he rarely showed anyway were all over the place, and he seemed numb to most things.

_And Harry…_

His therapist looked at him with huge, sad eyes. She put her arm around his shoulders and clapped him on the arm. “Everything will be alright. There are people there that will take good care of you. Don’t worry about anything.”

_At all._

***

“Okay, this will hurt a tiny bit. You’re not scared of blood, are you?”

The Mediwitch who peered down at him was young and pretty —from what Draco could see—with short dark-brown hair and forest-green eyes.

_Green like…_

Draco’s thoughts were cut off by the Mediwitch’s voice, as she explained that she needed to perform a blood test. She also said it would feel a little like a pinch. It was the most peculiar way of doing a blood-test, Draco thought. The woman pulled out a shiny, silvery needle from a clear package with slender, gloved fingers. It had a special container attached to it too.

“I’ll tell you when I insert the needle in your arm.” She smiled at him.

Then there was a sharp smell invading Draco’s nostrils as the Mediwitch dabbed what felt like a wet cloth against the crook of his arm.

“Don’t bother with him, Penny please,” another, more stern and much older female voice rang out through the room. “He’s been here three hours; he hasn’t said a single word.”

“I can tell he hears me though,” Penny said softly in response next to him. “I’m going to stick you now Draco. Draco’s okay for me to say, right?”

Draco felt like someone had cast a Bubble-Head charm on him. Every voice, every sound felt like miles away, not quite reaching his ears. He was flat on his back on an uncomfortable mattress and the ceiling he stared up at was dirty and in need of a paint job. 

_Why are ceilings always dirty?_ Draco thought to himself, and in spite of the situation, he almost wanted to smile. Sometimes his mind wandered off to the most peculiar things.

He wasn’t sure how big the room was or how he got there. He had been here three hours the voice that wasn’t Penny had said, but he barely remembered that. One thing he knew for sure was true though, was that he hadn’t said anything at all since he got here.

Draco snapped his eyes shut as the tip of the needle poked through his delicate skin. It slid inside easily, and it was a bit strange. No one had ever done this on him before.

“It’s over soon,” he heard Penny say. She sat on his left; at least that was where her voice came from. The other Mediwitch was quiet, but Draco could hear the woman bustle about somewhere to his right. He almost wanted her to say something too, anything that would explain what was happening a bit more. Draco didn’t want to ask.

_Please don’t make me ask._

The anxiety within him was high; he could feel the stress rush through his veins, and his heart pounded fast. Draco lay as still as he could, not wanting to move as much as an inch. Dark red blood from his arm was poured into the little container attached to the needle. His outward appearance seemed calm and collected. But inside of him was raging chaos and Draco almost didn’t know what to do with himself. He hated to not know what was going on. Nobody seemed keen to tell him either, and Penny had been the first one to address him directly. Everybody else talked _over_ his head, talked _about_ him; like he was an object and not a person.

Draco wasn’t sure what the time was, and the room didn’t have a clock, but he had a strong feeling this day had been too long so far. The room smelt stale and was warm, and he caught himself longing for his apartment.

The memories of him being in his therapist’s office this morning were hazy and seemed so long ago. Draco had a vague memory of the witch accompanying him to the ward at St Mungo’s too, and he had half-expected her to stay with him as support. That was what he had her for, wasn’t it? But she had only flashed another smile and given him a hug before leaving. "Don't worry, everything will be alright," she had said over her shoulder. The minute she left, two people Draco had never seen before came out through large doors and led him inside.

Behind the doors was a waiting room, with a puke-green floor and washed-out white walls. A bright green stripe was painted across the middle, as if somebody wanted to make the place more cheery. There were matching green seats along the walls and in the middle of the room. Draco eyes roamed over battered brown coffee tables with copies of _the Daily Prophet, Witch Weekly_ and other magazines no one read. If people weren't miserable before they came here, they would be in a matter of seconds. It looked that depressing.

The two people —a man and a woman— that had walked him inside, told him to sit down and wait for a Mediwitch to come get him.

_“It could be a while,”_ they had told him before leaving. _“We take in a lot of patients.”_

Draco remembered it all feeling completely mental. He didn’t like new people, and he _certainly_ didn’t like waiting rooms or hospitals. It made him stressed out to no end and left him feeling like he didn’t have any control at all. He had tried to explain this to his therapist at one point, but she hadn’t listened to him. Only smiled the way she usually smiled, the _’Don’t-worry-everything-will-be-alright’-_ smile. Somebody should wipe it off her face. It was the most irritating thing in the world.

The waiting room had been packed with people too, all in various states of bad. They all had the same glassy stares, and one lady was talking in riddles. Another laughed hysterically. It was like one of those Muggle films that Harry once had wanted to watch, and Draco hadn’t wanted to be alone, so he had watched it too. It was one thing to see it on a screen in the comfort of one’s home and another experiencing it. Another person —an old wizard— had been trembling in a corner, sitting on the dirty floor.

_“The world is about to end,”_ he’d mumbled incoherently, rocking from side to side. _“Endless fire. Death. Despair.”_

_Well, to be fair, we all are going to die one day._

On the opposite end of the room, there was another large door. Occasionally, someone would come out of it and call for one of the people in the room to go with them. Draco had caught a glimpse of what was behind that door; a big futuristic tunnel he couldn’t see the end of. Maybe that old man had been right. Perhaps it had been nothing but death and despair there.

“Draco’s okay for me to say right?”

The question made Draco turn his head and bring his attention back to where he was. It had been a while now since he had walked through that tunnel. It had led to this very room, to Penny and the other Mediwitch. Penny’s voice was light and sounded like pleasant music to his ears. It would have brought the tiniest bit of comfort if Draco could feel anything. Penny's face had been a little blurry the first time their eyes had met, and he vaguely remembered her as pretty. As their eyes met again, he realised he’d been right. She was pretty indeed, _beautiful_ even. She couldn’t be more than twenty—like he was. Somehow it felt embarrassing being in this position and meet someone the same age. And her eyes…They reminded him of…

_“Harry…”_

His Harry.

_I want Harry. Take me to Harry._

Suddenly Draco felt his anxiety increase tenfold. It became harder and harder to breathe, and he didn’t want to lie down anymore. Penny still filled test-tube after test-tube with his blood. The arm the needle was attached to started to shake uncontrollably. In fact, his whole body shook. Draco panicked; his breath hitched; feelings of shame, guilt, fear… Everything came over him all at once. His heart-rate increased more and Penny —her voice far-away— called out something about a panic attack, although Draco couldn’t hear her. Someone was yelling, but Draco couldn’t quite hear them either. He wanted to run away, wanted to be set free, wanted Harry, it wasn’t supposed to be this way, why couldn’t they listen to him, where was his therapist, why couldn’t she be with him, why couldn’t Harry, why—

There were so many why’s nobody could answer, and then everything turned black.


End file.
